Gregory Roberts - The Mountain Shadow

Half-Moon Auntie excelled herself for Karla. At one point she sent me away, telling me that the next portion of her performance was for women only.

I slipped and slid away at slow speed on the fish-oil floor, resisting the impulse to glance back.

‘Nice,’ Karla said, when she joined me in the Colaba market. ‘That’s some serious yoga. Someone absolutely has to paint that woman.’

‘Maybe one of your young painters?’

‘Good idea,’ she laughed. ‘I think we’re going to do some pretty interesting stuff together, Shantaram.’

‘You got that right.’

A young prostitute, from the Regal Circle sex roundabout, was returning home through the market to her hut in the fishermen’s slum. Her name was Circe, and she was a handful.

Her bing, if she hadn’t made enough money, was to pester men to have sex with her until they did, or until they paid her to stop pestering.

‘Hey, Shantaram,’ she said. ‘Fuck me long, double price.’

‘Hi, Circe,’ I said, trying to pass her, but she scampered into my path, her hands on her hips.

‘Fuck me quick, fuck me long, you shit!’

‘Bye, Circe,’ I said, dodging away again, but she grabbed her yellow sari in her hands, and ran around to face me again.

‘You fuck, or you pay,’ she said, seizing my arm mid-pester, and trying to rub against me.

Karla shoved her in the chest with both hands, sending her reeling away.

‘Stay back, Circe,’ she growled in Hindi, her fists raised.

Circe brushed her sari into place and walked away, avoiding Karla’s eyes.

‘Oh, so that’s how it’s done,’ I said.

‘Cute girl,’ Karla said. ‘Ever since the fetish party, all I’ve met are people I would’ve added to the list.’

‘I’ll bet. I’ve finished my rounds. Where to next, Miss Karla?’

‘Now, my love, we rise all the way to the bottom of the pork barrel.’

We rode south to the Taj Mahal hotel, where Karla had a meeting with stockholders of Ranjit’s media conglomerate.

Early evening was still gold in the eyes of the Sikh security team that greeted Karla at the hotel. She was wearing clear plastic sandals and a grey boilermaker suit she’d cut up, leaving wide, open shoulders, and roped in with a belt made of black plaited hemp. Her hair was styled by the wind, on the back of my motorcycle, and looked pretty good.

I was wearing black jeans, my denim vest and a Keith Richards T-shirt I’d bartered off Oleg, and looked not so pretty good for a business meeting. But I didn’t care: they weren’t dressed for my world, either.

The meeting was in the business clubrooms. We stepped into a tiny elevator. As the doors closed, I offered Karla my flask. She sipped it and passed it back as the elevator opened on a narrow corridor, leading to a treasure room of affluently understated decadence.

Leather chairs and couches, each one the price of a family car, were parked against wide mahogany panels, imported from faraway countries where mahogany trees are murdered for their flesh. Crystal glasses stung the eyes with glittering reflections, carpets surrendered like sponges, expensive paintings of expansive business leaders enriched the walls, and white-gloved waiters waited patiently on every unfulfilled need.

There were six businessmen in the room, all of them well dressed and well preserved. When we entered the clubroom they froze, staring at Karla.

‘I am so very sorry for your loss, Karla-Madame,’ one of the businessmen said.

‘So very sorry, Madame,’ others said.

I looked at Karla. She was reading their eyes and faces. Wherever it led, she didn’t like it.

‘Something happened to Ranjit,’ she said.

‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’ Karla asked quietly.

‘Ranjit has expired, Karla-Madame,’ the businessman said. ‘He was shot by someone, tonight, in Bandra. Just now. It is on the news.’

I realised that the red cavalcades of police cars and press cars we’d seen, rushing toward Bandra, were racing to the scene of Ranjit’s shooting. Karla had the same idea. She looked at me.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked.

She nodded, her lips taut.

‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen,’ she said, her voice firm. ‘I will ask you to adjourn this meeting for forty-eight hours, if that is suitable.’

‘Of course, Karla-Madame.’

‘Anything you say, Karla-Madame.’

‘Take all the time you need, Karla-Madame.’

‘So sorry for your loss.’

In the elevator she clung to me, her face in my chest, and cried. Then the elevator jammed to a halt, stuck between floors.

She stopped crying, wiped her eyes, and looked around with a widening smile.

‘Hello, Ranjit,’ she said. ‘Come out and fight me like a ghost.’

The elevator started again, and began to descend.

‘Goodbye, Ranjit,’ I said.

On the street, beside the bike, I held her hand.

‘What do you want to do?’

‘If I could, if he’s still there,’ she said, ‘I’d like to identify him. I don’t want to do it in the morgue.’

I took her to Bandra, riding fast, Randall following behind. We pulled up at a press cordon, established near the dance bar where Ranjit’s silver bullet had found him.

His body was still inside the nightclub. The police were waiting to remove the corpse of the famous tycoon, we heard, because one of the major television reporters hadn’t arrived. Karla, Randall and I took up a position in the crowd with a view of the arc lights trained by local camera crews on the entrance to the nightclub.

I didn’t feel good about it. I didn’t want to see Ranjit’s body being carried out on a gurney. And there were a lot of cops standing around.

I looked at Karla. She was blazing queens, scanning the scene, taking in the large broadcast vans, the arc lights, and the lines of cops.

‘You sure you want to do this?’

‘I have to do it,’ she said. ‘It’s my last job for Ranjit’s family. My way to make it up to them for playing Ranjit’s game, I guess.’

Karla lurched forward through the press cordon. Cameras flashed. I was half a pace behind her, and Randall was at my side.

‘Stand aside,’ Randall said calmly in Marathi and Hindi, passing through the ranks of the cops and journalists. ‘Please, show respect. Please, show respect.’

The press and the cops let Karla into the club, but stopped Randall and me at the door. We waited for ten long minutes until she came back to us. Her head was high, her eyes staring straight ahead, but she was resting on the arm of a senior officer.

‘It is a terrible business, Madame,’ the officer said. ‘We have not completed our enquiries, but it seems that your husband was shot by a young man, who -’

‘I can’t discuss this now,’ Karla said.

‘Of course not, Madame,’ the OIC said quickly.

‘Please, excuse my rudeness,’ Karla said, stopping him with a raised hand. ‘I simply wanted you to attest that I have identified Ranjit’s body. His family must be informed, quickly, and with my positive identification you can now perform that onerous task, isn’t that so?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Then, do you attest my identification, and will you inform Ranjit’s family?’

‘I attest it, Madame,’ the officer said, saluting. ‘And I will perform that duty.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Karla said, shaking his hand. ‘You no doubt have questions you would like to ask me. I’ll visit your office at any time that you require me.’

‘Yes, Madame. Please, take my card. And may I express my sorrow, for your loss.’

‘Thank you again, sir,’ Karla said.

When we left the cordon of cops to walk back to the bike, some photographers tried to take Karla’s picture. Randall held them back, and paid them to stop shouting for the freedom of the press.